


Beautiful Collision

by fatallyserious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Binding Spell Fun, Blood and Violence, Deviates From Canon, Eventual Smut, F/M, Final Year, Fluff and Angst, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatallyserious/pseuds/fatallyserious
Summary: As their final year at Hogwarts commences, so does a battle of wits - and brawn. Everyone wears masks post-war, but it seems some masks are better fastened than others. - [DRAMIONE] - Final Year





	1. You’re awfully jumpy, Granger

**Author's Note:**

> A/N : What in the world am I doing? Starting another story apparently when I already have one on the go. I don’t know. I have so many ideas flying around that I feel as though if I get them down on paper (or computer), even just the tiniest bit, then I can rest easy. Sorry I've been MIA from my other story, but I just wanted to get a little bit of this plot bunny out of the way and then, before you know it, I'm already four chapters deep. Oh well. Here you go.

_"What a beautiful collision, things that go bump in the night. With such beautiful precision, fate could create you and I." - Bic Runga_

\---

She was homesick, and terribly so.

For the first time in her life she wanted nothing more than to go home to her parent’s quaint little London house and be fussed over by them, like she had been in her youth. Grounded, scolded, sent to her room – she’d take anything if it meant spending time in their company. How she found herself yearning to be a child again, to have her needs taken care of and her concerns reassured. Being a soldier of war had made her forget just how much she truly missed her mother and father.

They were still oblivious to her existence, of course. That knowledge hurt more than she ever thought were possible. The desires of home and familiarity felt tenfold stronger knowing her parents where incognizant of their one and only daughter. The yearning she harboured to reconcile was far more difficult to ignore. It presented as an empty, longing sensation that sat deep in the pit of her stomach, forcing tears to spring forth undesirably at the most inopportune times. She couldn’t help but wallow in the memories of her youth, reminisce over and over again of all the times she had taken for granted.

What were her parents doing at that very moment in time, all the way over on the other side of the world? Something mundane, probably. Fetching mail from the letterbox or standing in line at a supermarket checkout. She could picture her father trying to squash a gargantuan Australian spider in the bathtub, and her mother laughing at him as he failed miserably. She should have been there, in the picture her mind’s eye painted, but she wasn’t.

She couldn’t be, not yet.

She had decided to wait until the end of her final year before attempting to reverse her memory charm on them, just in case. Her two friends had both agreed it would be best to wait until things had settled down for a bit. No doubt her parents would be furious once they found out about everything that had happened, the wins and losses of the war. If Hermione wanted to finish her last year as she intended, it would be best to keep her parents out of the loop for the time being.

But that was easy for her friends to say and far harder for her to enact. Neither of her two best friends were returning to school for their final year. After the wars end, it seemed trivial to make any member of the Golden Trio finish their schooling, having already far proved their worth. They had all been offered jobs directly within The Ministry and Harry and Ron had both leapt at the chance to progress without finishing their education.

But Hermione was famously a fickler for learning and had politely declined to join them on their little adventure. The famed trio had been split up. Harry and Ron both formed a dynamic duo of sorts within the Auror department, and Hermione was sitting in an otherwise empty train carriage, hurtling back towards Hogwarts to commence her final year.

She swiped at her face as she looked out the window, sensing her destination racing quickly toward her. She should get changed, get ready to ‘face the music’, as it were. That’s what her friends would be telling her to do.

_Suck it up, breath through it. She would be right as rain._

She was more than aware that she needed to play cool and stoic, pretend to be outwardly unaffected by the war, her parents, the lack of her two best friends for company. She would still have Ginny, and of course the other surviving members of DA.

But the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself, even from them. She loathed the thought of people pitying or trying to comfort her, paying her courtesies that she deemed redundant. There were people who deserved that devotion far more than herself, considering there was nothing physically wrong with her in the slightest. This was her final year and she was determined to have at least ONE year at school where all hell didn’t break loose, even if she did feel a bit blue.

But it was homesickness, nothing more.

Plus, they had won the war. The good side had won – Harry had done it, emerged victorious and saved the day. This was not a time for defeatism. It was a time for revel, even if it didn’t feel quite right to her - if she didn’t feel truly like herself in the aftermath.

By the time the Hogwarts Express was pulling into Hogsmeade Station, Hermione had found some success in wrangling her emotions. On the outside she was the epitome of calm and collected, despite internally feeling like she was tearing in two. Not that anyone would know, though. She would be fine, she kept telling herself over and over, like the mantra would help resolve her melancholy. She just needed to get through the Sorting Ceremony and then she could confine herself to the four posts of her assigned bed, cast a silencing charm, and cry to her heart’s content.

_She would be fine. She would be fine. She would be fine._

Despite ensuring she looked ‘normal’ by the carriage window’s translucent reflection, she still loitered until most of the other students had disembarked from their own carriages, afraid one of them might notice she was a little downhearted as they passed her by, that her eyes were a little more bloodshot than usual.

When she did finally venture from the train, she found there was only one empty carriage left to take her into the school grounds. Its dallying Thestrals, though barely visible in the night, stood like patient demons in their dark surroundings, inky and beautiful, if not hauntingly so.

Since it was empty, Hermione found herself spoilt for seating choice as she climbed up. Usually Harry and Ron would both push and shove each other for the prime seat, which ever position that was - she never quite understood. As the most responsible of the group, she would tell them to be quiet, chide their juvenile squabbling.

 _“Just having a laugh.”_ They’d tell her. _“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”_

She sighed heavily at the fond recollection, taking a seat. She waited for a moment but found that the Thestrals didn’t move. Apparently, they were waiting for more remaining stragglers to join them.

Hermione huffed into the night air and pulled a Muggle book from her robes, needing something to occupy her downcast mind. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there in the cold silent darkness, robes drawn around herself tightly. It wasn’t until she had made her way five chapters in that she heard someone drop onto the bench adjacent to her. She jumped, not perceiving any audible clues that someone had been approaching, and abruptly threw her book over the side of the carriage and into the mud below.

“Do you mind?” She frowned, the venom in her voice only intensifying when she saw who had sat down opposite her.

Fastening her with a half-hearted sneer, Draco Malfoy looked like a ghost of his former self. He watched her with lazy, half lidded eyes, whiter than paper in the moonlight. It was fitting, she thought. He was so pale that she half expected to be able to see right through him like she could with Nearly Headless Nick.

“You’re awfully jumpy, Granger.” His lips quirked as he stared, no doubt picking apart every aspect of the mask she was trying to keep firmly in place - the illusion of an indifferent witch. But apparently interpreting people was one of his many lesser-known talents.

“Why are _you_ here?” She huffed and drew her wand, accioing her book back into her lap and wiping the dirt off it. Her hand shook embarrassingly as she did, and she mentally hexed herself for appearing so timid and fearful. This was not the image she was wanting to convey, and certainly not to him of all people. The stuck-up git. “Haven’t you been expelled yet?”

“In your dreams.” He scoffed at her, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. The apathetic nature of his casualness made Hermione loath him even more. After everything they had both been through, not to mention his name being dragged through the mud in the resulting trials post war, he didn’t seem fazed. Either he wore a mask much more resilient than hers, or he really was just a horrible person. An ex-Death Eater, she reminded herself. The very definition of a horrible person.

He continued to stare at her in silence, lazy eyes watching her every move. It was unnerving that he should be so good at deciphering her, despite her attempts to try and act calm. She could see him picking away at her lousy attempt at a façade, piece by horrid piece.

“Like I have nothing better to dream about.” She muttered to herself and buried her nose back in her book, trying to let her mind get lost again lest she burst into tears in front of him. She desperately wished Harry and Ron were there with her, laughing and chatting and carrying on like the boys they were. Wherever they were, that’s probably what they were doing – laughing and yelling and being their stupid, senseless selves. She yearned for their company.

The three of them would have all caught an earlier carriage and would probably have been almost half way to the school by now, smiling and joking and carrying on merrily. Despite the tragic events of war still fresh on her mind, their companionship would help keep her spirits high.

Thankfully, the moon hung low and full in the sky above, which meant Hermione could read without having to use her shaking wand again to cast another charm. She focused her attention back down to her book, trying to locate where she left off but finding it difficult to keep focus.

The Thestrals still weren’t moving, perhaps waiting for more students to join them. Hermione turned a page and attempted to begin anew, aware Draco was still staring at her with great intensity. Could he really sense how miserable she truly was? She took a deep, calming breath and cast her eyes up toward the dark sky, foregoing reading.

Wherever Harry and Ron were right now, they would all be under that same moon. That thought was comforting, although not without a sense of irony. She should be with them – they should be there with her, not Draco Malfoy – scum of the Wizarding world.

A pang of loneliness squeezed at her chest and she suddenly felt like she had been robbed of air. Her stomach knotted uncomfortably, lips trembling as she pressed them together in a firm line. She looked back down and blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to stay clear so that she could feign reading.

_Stay together, stay together, stay together._

“Hi, excuse me,” A small voice to the side of the carriage pulled Hermione’s attention away from her book. Turning, she made eye contact with a young ebony-haired boy who was fidgeting with his hands. “I-is this the way to get to t-the castle?”

Hermione quickly regained her composure, nodding swiftly and setting her book to the side as she eyed the young boy. He did look very young - amazingly so. Had she also been that tiny once, way back in first year maybe?

“No.” She heard Draco speak coldly with a familiar drawl. “First years don’t go this way.”

The boy looked worried, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot as he peered up at them in the carriage. Heavens knew why he hadn’t made it to the docks at the lake. Usually the first years were ushered away into their boats rather dramatically by Hagrid upon arrival. She had never considered that the Groundskeeper come Professor might ever miss one.

Hermione scowled in Draco’s direction, sensing the young boy’s dread. She felt empathetic toward his predicament, having loathed the idea of arriving late to school ever since Harry and Ron had done so in second year. They could never really stay out of trouble, even way back then.

“You can ride with us.” She ignored Draco’s glare and beckoned the small boy to join her on her side of the carriage. He bounded up promptly and had just seated himself when the Thestrals decided to move, jarring everything sideways as they began their trek. Hermione quietly delighted in seeing Draco momentarily loose his balance before promptly righting himself again.

The boy’s name was Henry, he told her after she enquired. He was a first year and grew up in a similar situation to herself – _Muggleborn_. While he told her his little life story, and the excitement of receiving his letter, Hermione couldn’t help but steal glances up at Draco in between the small anecdotes. Draco sat stiffly, arms still crossed, pretending not to hear the familiar account. Perhaps it irritated him, considering his stance during the war. She wondered what his alignment even was now, given that the war had long ended. If the school had seen fit to reenrol him, it was fair to assume he had changed sides. On a much more personal level, she wondered if he still found her ‘muddy’ blood bothersome.

But of course, he would, she told herself. Leopards weren’t known to change their spots.


	2. We aren’t friends, Malfoy

_“Move with the strangers that pass through your way. If someone by chance should call out your name…” – Bic Runga_

\---

Deep breaths and meditation could only get him so far.

Severus would have told him he wasn’t trying hard enough, that he had to clear his mind and lock away all the rampant emotions that were flying about his head. Fatefully, he found it so much easier to do so when he had real, tangible things to worry about.

The cupboard, the cursed items, the Dark Lord taking up residence in his home.

All the pressure he endured back then made it easier to syphon his wild thoughts, lock them down and keep them quiet. There was an ever-present threat to his life which had forced him to into a state of emotional myopia.

But now there was no burden or weight he carried, no goal or target he was striving toward. There was nothing he was supposed to be working on, no Dark Lord looming over him, surveying his activities and conduct. Now there was only him. Even his mother and father were out of the picture, albeit temporarily. They had been tied up with Azkaban and the resulting regulations, leaving Draco quite without direction or guidance.

For the first time in … well, perhaps forever, Draco was his own person.

He wasn’t accosted or forced into acting a certain way thanks to his parents or elders. He was truly unhindered, and it was very liberating. But the freedom of thought and unharnessed emotion was now slowly driving him mad, eating away at his being. Sorrow and guilt had not been things he had dealt with well in the past, and now the two feelings had hit him head on like a train. He had supressed them successfully for so long. Too long. Under his father’s watchful eye, he wasn’t permitted to experience sorrow and certainly not guilt. He was the protégé of his father’s own extreme Pureblood views, after all - a perfect little bigot.

Emotions were simply not allowed.

It had been merely a week into first term and already Draco had found himself frantically rushing toward what he had deemed a safe-space for himself more than once, enclosed and private from the rest of the world. A place where he could unload in the dead of night and attempt to find peace. His solace from the chaos his mind conjured, from the uncontrolled sentiments threatening to devour him.

Draco pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the Hogwarts library, silently moving past the dark shelves and book-lined passages until he finally approached his table. It was hidden in a dark little recess, tucked away in the shadows. He rounded the last corner, ready to sit, when he paused midturn and gulped.

Someone was already at his table.

In the middle of the night, the one time he set aside to come to that exact location, someone had beaten him to it. A shadowed figure was sprawled over his self-proclaimed area, silently shivering and otherwise unaware he was even there. He leaned closer, inspecting whoever it was that had stolen his place. He knew that hair anywhere.

“You’re in my seat.” He ground out in a tight whisper, causing Hermione’s head to shoot up and her whole body to jump. He had scared her again. He was apparently good at that.

She extended a hand from her robes, wandlessly dismissing a silencing charm while she glowered at him.

“Your seat? I got here first. And what are you even doing out past curfew? I should report you.”

“Push off, Granger.” He replied stubbornly, casting a lumos and holding his wand out. Venom was already on the tip of his tongue, but he paused in striking when he noticed her ruddy features. Even by the poor light of his wand he could make out her red, puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks.

He didn’t know why, but her appearance made him falter. She had caught him unprepared. Those emotions again – _guilt, was it?_ – he felt them bubbling in the back of his mind, tainting his thoughts.

“Been crying, huh?” His forced his voice to remain apathetic and his lips to curve upward. He willed himself to be the embodiment of menacing, for fear that she should suspect something. That was the last thing he needed. His efforts earned him a scowl and she turned away to rub at her face.

“Is this where you come when you want to end it all?” He pressed on, joshing her.

“Don’t be absurd. I don’t want to end it all.”

“Your swollen face says otherwise.” He was picking her apart again, quietly in his mind and verbally in his jousting. While he mentally kept his own mask in place, catching Granger mid-blubber fest was not a fluke he wanted to let slip by. During any other year he would have had a field day with this chance encounter and, to portray normality, he had to act accordingly. He heard her sigh, saw her slip a small book into her robes and turn back toward him a touch.

“If you must know, I’m experiencing…I feel…I’m homesick, okay?”

He almost laughed. Of all the things to be shedding tears about, this seemed the most absurd. Crying because she wanted to go home? At least she still had one. A spike of jealousy took hold and he chose to toy with her, irritate her a little. She made maintaining their routine easy. She was fun to pick on.

“You miss your mummy and daddy? Merlin, how old are you again?”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t need your narcissistic judgment on my emotional health.” She sniffed, crossing her arms neatly across her chest. He noticed she still wasn’t vacating his table, though.

“You don’t, but I’ll give it free of charge.” He dropped into the chair opposite her, sprawling his arms over the table to purposefully make her feel uncomfortable. “You need to grow up. So, what if your parents aren’t here and all your friends have buggered off. Who cares? At least they’re still alive.”

He saw her eyebrows draw together in the dim light.

“Malfoy, why did you come here tonight?” Oh, she was a smart cookie. Already trying to pick him apart? That wouldn’t do.

“For some light reading, of course.”

“Of course.” She parroted, starring straight across the table at him. He could tell she was searching his face for something, a hint or a clue that would pertain to his own inner workings. “Well, I recommend the series that Adam Adaski wrote about…you know…the grieving process and all that.”

He swallowed audibly and narrowed his eyes at her, holding her gaze. Was she actually implying that he needed a self-help book to mourn? Him? He wasn’t some grief-stricken optimist like she was. Nothing she could recommend would help with what he was dealing with. Even with the best of intentions, she was still so utterly infuriating. Trying to flip the situation on him. He was the one that had found her crying, not the other way around!

“Don’t try and analyse me.” He huffed angrily, fisting his hands where they lay across the table.

“Why not?” She had sobered from her crying suspiciously well, her eyes now fiery and passionate. “You do it to me all the time!”

He scoffed, breaking eye contact to look away.

“I have better things to do than analyse you, Granger.”

“Yet here you are, sitting opposite me, giving me mental advice.”

Well, she had a point. This was not how he had envisioned the conversation going when he had decided to sit down. Again, he blamed her for that.

“Just a friendly gesture.” He shrugged indifferently. “Don’t look too much into it.”

“We aren’t friends, Malfoy.”

“I’m well aware.” He glanced back at her, quirking his lips into a sneer. “Pity you didn’t go with Dumb and Dumber when they left. That would have made my year.”

She snapped at him then, ardent and energetic. He hoped the paintings surrounding them wouldn’t hear.

“Why are you so cruel?”

“Sorry. I forgot about your current suicidal tenancies.”

She fumed at his words, huffing and puffing like a dragon. He enjoyed her most like this, he believed, when she was annoyed and riled up and ready to fight. Not that he appreciated her at all, of course. But if Hermione Granger had to exist, he preferred she exist in a constant state of fury. She had no outlet for her emotions that he was aware of, apart from her apparently new sessions of night-time crying, so it served to simply make her more and more frustrated. He wondered if she might suddenly snap and murder him. No, scratch that – he wondered when.

“I’m not suicidal! I just miss them, is all. You no doubt miss you friends. The ones who…you know.”

Again, she was trying to turn the conversation back to him, trying to reverse the topic of loss. She had quite a talent for it, he had to admit. Maybe there was a little bit of Slytherin in her afterall.

“We live, and we die.” He stated very matter-of-factly. “And sometimes we barely get to live at all. That’s existence for you.”

She frowned at him disapprovingly.

“That’s a bleak way of looking at it.”

“It’s the only way I can look at it without wanting to join them.” He half joked, wondering if she could fathom the idea of him offing himself so nonchalantly.

She was silent for a short moment and he watched her eyes dart down, then come back up at him thoughtfully. Her fire had melted into something nearly unrecognisable. He didn’t like it.

“I’m…I’m sorry for your loss, Malfoy. Really, I am.”

It was compassion. Mislaid concern, accidently directed at him.

“I don’t want your sympathy.” Draco snapped, staring at her incredulously. It was all he could do to keep a customary frontage in place, to maintain himself. It was so tiring.

And how could this blasted witch be so empathetic toward him? After all the atrocious acts he had committed against her and her friends in the past? Atrocities that he himself deemed otherwise unforgivable, no less. Hell, he was even trying to toy with her purposefully at that exact moment! Winding her up for no reason after than to see if she would crack.

Had she chosen to exonerate him? Just like that? No grudges or resentments? How dare she absolve his fault - he didn’t deserve it, and definitely couldn’t justify accepting any pardon she was offering. It only made him feel more contrite, if that was even possible, and he didn’t know how to deal with that emotion yet. He was barely wrapping his head around guilt, it seemed.

Just when he felt he had exhausted himself in his façade, she was standing up – finally – gathering her things and leaving. She made a display of walking away but turned briefly to look over her shoulder and puff toward his shadowed silhouette.

“Well, I can’t offer you anything else. So, take it or leave it.”


	3. Sticks and stones, Mudblood

He had taken it. Hermione Granger’s sympathy. 

Not because he should, but because he was a selfish creature. He always had been. No one had ever offered him such a precious gift before; something so mundane yet so inaccessible to him. He had accepted her sympathy and wrapped it around himself, hiding within her offer of otherwise unattainable compassion like a coward. 

He would never tell her, though, choosing to forego the niceties of forgiveness to save routine.

The last arithmancy class for the week was over and done with before Draco had even opened his ink well. He had been too lost in thought to pay attention, his mind absently wondering over his first month back within the confines of the school. It felt outlandish to be there, sitting amongst the pupils he had once opposed. The school was missing so many students, those who he had become accustomed to seeing every day before the war. There were so many empty chairs without occupants.

His eyes kept roaming over to the seat near him in particular where Pansy used to plant herself. It was now vacant and empty without her presence. It seemed no one wanted to sit in the seats vacated by the dead, which was judicious, he reasoned. He wouldn’t want to either.

Maybe Granger was onto something with her grief thing. He had tried to forget their little run in the library the night before, disregard the words she had spoken to him before she had left. He had purposefully not let his eyes wander over to where he knew she was sitting at the front of the class, afraid her misdirected sympathy might somehow leech into him by sight and forgive things he didn’t yet want forgiven – things he perhaps didn’t ever want forgiveness for.

Looking down at his blank parchment, Draco realised he couldn’t recall a single thing from the lesson he had just sat through. Blaise Zabini was packing up his belongings where he sat next to him, his parchment also scarce for words. It appeared everyone was a little out of it, a little distracted from their edification.

All except Granger, perhaps. She was furiously storming down the middle of the classroom towards him, a profound sense of detestation surrounding her.

She rounded his desk until she came up beside him, a vision of pure vehemence as she slapped her palm loudly down on the wooden surface. A few students who were still loitering nearby jumped, turning their attention to the scene unfolding.

“Did you tell everyone you found me crying last night?” She asked in a tight whisper, voice rich with restrained fury. Draco arched a brow her way and heard Blaise coughing awkwardly to his side.

No, he hadn’t told anyone. He wasn’t a bloody stoolpigeon – well, not _anymore_ anyway. He didn’t have time to spill all of Granger’s supposedly dastardly secrets when he was already trying to work out his own emotional issues. He barely had time for himself.

“Whatever do you mean?” It was an honest question, but he asked it with an unnecessary tone of arrogance that he knew made Granger’s dirty blood boil. She was flushing, embarrassed and angry over something he didn’t even have a part in. Oh, how he secretly delighted in getting a rise out of Gryffindor’s princess.

“You…you arsehole! I can’t believe how cruel you can be!” Her voice had raised an octave.

“It _is_ in my nature, you must remember.”

“How can you even function as a human being? Surely your brain is just full to the brim with arrogant disgust. How you excel in any subject is beyond me!” There was something Draco recognised in the tone of her words, something he saw in her eyes, akin to a challenge flaming in the depths of them. She was willing to meet him, match him – trying to get a response. Fair enough, he thought. After years of bullying, it was only fair. An eye for an eye. He could play her little games just as well as she could play his. Perhaps he would humour her.

“Why don’t you go and have a cry about it, Granger?” He smirked wickedly at her, teeth and all. She stumbled for words, taken back by his vicious advance.

“You…you…”

“What?” He heard Blaise suck in a breath, silently imploring him not to continue. He did anyway, of course, as he expected she was anticipating. “Loathsome? Evil? Foul?”

“You inbred little _fuck_!” She cried and, oh, she was thoroughly provoked. He didn’t recall ever hearing her curse in such a way. And when she was in such a way, it felt tangibly right – like the stars had fallen into alignment. Draco felt right at home as the target of her hatred.

Professor Vector’s voice spoke up, having heard Hermione’s shrill blasphemes.

“Miss Granger! The use of swears, Muggle or not is—”

“Oh, big words, Granger, you stuck up bitch!” He countered, narrowing his eyes at her and sliding off his stool. He had grown a good head taller than her and now found he loomed over her, forcing her to look up to meet his eye.

“Mister Malfoy! Both of you, settle—"

“Shut up, you pediculous little wank stain!” She practically shrieked at him, his stature of no effect. He found himself grinning ear to ear at her insults, relishing the way she danced along with him in turn.

“ENOUGH. Detention for the both of you.”

He didn’t really remember what had happened next. He vaguely recalled his wand being accioed from his pocket toward the Professor, but his focus was on the pure unabashed horror sweeping across Hermione Granger’s face. Her anger ebbed, the weight of the Professor’s words sinking in. Draco watched hungrily. It was irrationally pleasant. Yes, they had both scored a detention, but seeing the dismayed reaction of his once bitter rival more than made up for it. 

It was delightful.

\---

Detention for cursing wasn’t hard work or particularly difficult by any means. Merely, it was simply boring. After dinner in the great hall, both Hermione and Draco were to report to the North Tower to clean the Divination crystals. Ironic they should be made to clean a classroom neither of them used, Draco thought. But they cleaned, in silence no less, each taking a pouf as far apart from the other as possible in the strange little attic-like room.

Cleaning the crystals entailed carefully dusting the many quartzes and minerals Trelawney liked to collect, as well as polishing the large crystal balls used frequently for her Divination classes.  
While Draco languished lazily through the task at hand, in no huge rush to get anything done, across the room Hermione worked frantically. She huffed and polished the stones with furious speed, gripping them with nearly enough force to snap them into pieces.

She worked fastidiously, and Draco found himself watching her time and time again as the hours ticked past. Where Draco would finish cleaning one crystal she would match him with ten of her own, working like a well-oiled machine. It was irritating, not because she was better at it than him, but because she should care so much to do it so well in the first place. It was detention, not a school assignment.

And it was trivial, compared to the other things rattling around in his mind. Heck, probably even compared to the inner workings of her mind, too. They both had pressing issues that far surpassed such an inconsequential task as cleaning pieces of worthless rock.

Draco looked down at the small piece of rose quartz in his hand, feeling the weight of it in his palm.

_POING._

Hermione looked up from the stones in her hands, staring at Draco who had his eyes set down toward his lap. She could have sworn she had just heard something land near her. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously but said nothing, instead returning to her work. Perhaps she was imagining—

_POING._

“Ouch!”

Her head shot up again quickly, eyes trained in his direction as she rubbed her arm. Was he throwing things at her now? What in earth was wrong with him?

He looked up at her, feigning innocence as she fixed him with a glare. Gosh, he had always been a terrible actor.

“Grow up, Malfoy.” She huffed, well aware he was baiting her. Screaming matches were one thing, throwing shards of crystal were another. She really didn’t want to concede to him, feeling too warn out to play the adversary.

“Make me.” He smirked and aimed a small piece of gemstone at her head. She narrowly dodged it, growling in frustration at how immature he was being. It was not the time, nor the place for it.

“Stop it or I’ll get a Professor.” She threatened, tightening her grip on a shard of quartz she held as she resumed cleaning.

He paused briefly, much to her satisfaction, but then let out an abrupt snort. She shouldn’t look up, she knew - shouldn’t fall for the lure he was throwing her.

But she did.

Making sure he had captured her attention, he raised a fist up to his eyes, pouting and curling his wrist in mid-air while pretending to cry. The act, while not overly nasty in itself, was enough to set her reeling. She flushed immediately at what he was implying – that she should go and ‘have a cry’, yet again? What kind of moronic ten-year-old was he, now? And yet, that simple childish gesture, accompanied by the unspoken words behind it set her off, seething like a wild animal.

“You pompous git!” She stood up, crystals flying, flustered with rage, and stormed over to where he sat. He stood up as she reached him, attempting once more to use his stature against her, but she was far too livid to notice.

“Sticks and stones, Mudblood.” He watched her eye twitching at the endearment, enjoying the fury that licked the brown hues.

Was this it? Was this when Hermione was finally going to snap and attempt to snuff his life out? He had to admit, he was surprised no one had tried it sooner. But she was nearly shaking in anger as she stared up at him, fists clenched at her sides, fingers no doubt itching to move, to hex him.

Absently he wondered if Potter had taught her _sectumsempra_ , or of he had kept that little gem to himself.

“What are you going to do, Granger? We’re both unarmed, you stupid bint.”

“I don’t need my wand to hurt you!” She yelled, backhanding him swiftly across the cheek with enough force that her knuckles cracked. She doubled over and shook her hand furiously, pain splinting up her forearm. Hitting people hurt, or at least hitting his sharp face did – something she should have remembered from their third year.

She heard Draco yelp in surprised distress and then felt him shove her hard in the side, pushing her off balance and onto the ground. She landed on her front, the unpleasant sting of grazed skin biting her palms and knees as she fell against the aged floorboards.

She winced and was about to push herself up, eager to slap him again, when she felt the weight of Draco’s body bearing down on her, straddling and pushing her flat against the ground. He twisted her arm behind her back painfully, forcing her cheek flush against the cool wood.

“You stupid cow.” She heard him mutter close above her. “Honestly, you’d think a war would teach you how to fight.”

Damn it, she was too tired for this. 

Hermione growled and flicked her head up sharply, ignoring the pain radiating out from her arm to her shoulder as she did so. She smacked the back of her bushy head into Draco’s face, causing him to grunt and let go, opting to cradle his injured nose instead of holding her in place. She flipped herself, struggling to get out from underneath him. Her hands fisted and hammered against his chest, pushing and punching to get free.

“Get off!” She shrieked and screwed her eyes closed, writhing awkwardly beneath him. She felt warm droplets drip onto her cheek, assumedly from his no doubt bleeding nose. The grotesque nature of the position he had her in seemed to regenerate her energy. “Yuck! Get off! Get off! Get off!”

“Okay, okay!” She heard him yell. He tried to capture her hands in one of his to still her, his other clasped firmly over his nose. “Stop! Okay, stop!”

But she didn’t. Some sort of deep seeded desperation had kicked in and she thrashed wildly under his weight, snapping her hips up to try and buck him off.

“Fuck’s sake, Granger, stop already!” He hissed down at her, vaguely aware of the drops of crimson that were speckling her face as he tried to hold her still.

“Good gracious!” The headmistress’ voice proclaimed shrilly from the trapdoor and halted both Hermione and Draco with its surprising conviction. Neither moved, but both turned their attention to the where McGonigal’s dismayed face greeted them. She cast her intense stare from Draco’s nose down to where Hermione lay covered in droplets of blood, her eyes widening ever so slightly when she took in the unusual positioning of the two.

Draco realised it as well, and quickly reeled backward, swiping at the blood that was now running down past his chin. This was certainly a turn of events, to say the least.


	4. That’s the Oath, you idiot

A broken nose.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and yet it felt different. The pain ebbed and returned with every breath Draco took, but it was a far more intricate sensation than when Goyle had accidently smacked him in the face during their first-year break. That had been a rather unpleasant Christmas.

It was as if Hermione herself had a way of injuring with a personality, if it were possible – like her inflictions were uniquely hers. He didn’t understand it, but felt it as he stood next to her in their Headmistress’ office, head reclined to stare at the high vaulted ceiling with a wad of tissues under his nose.

McGonigal had refused to fix the break until she had hounded them both for their actions, cross-examined and reprimanded them incessantly. Draco anticipated her to take sides, and she had fulfilled his expectations with the greatest proficiency, imploring Hermione to reconsider her opinion that they were both equally to blame.

But Hermione had stood her ground, stubbornly determined to face her fair share of their consequences. _What a self-righteous bint_ , Draco had thought to himself, although he was secretly quite awestruck by her lack of self-preservation.

McGonigal was fussing left and right, flitting about like a blowfly as she recited their misdeeds and further punishments that might befall them. Peering from the corner of his eye he caught sight of Hermione to his left, head hung low as she nodded solemnly in agreeance with their Headmistress’ words.

She was still freckled with his blood – _pure_ blood, he noted. What a sight. It didn’t seem that long ago that such a notion would make him repulsed.

“Mister Malfoy? I do hope you are paying attention.” McGonigal’s crisp pronunciation bought him back to the topic at hand, and he quickly darted his eyes up to the ceiling again.

_Careful, Draco._

“This is of the utmost importance. I can’t stress that enough,” He heard her walk closer and could tell she was examining him. “Inter-house cohesion has been troubled ever since the end of You-Know-Who. Without Mister Potter as a beacon of amalgamation this year, I’m afraid house conflicts are going to become volatile. You are both senior students. The younger students look up to you. You need to lead by example.”

Draco huffed to himself and repositioned his tissues, wincing slightly.

Amalgamation? _What a joke_. He sneered inwardly at the concept. Even if Potter had stayed for his final year, Draco doubted any house unification would have taken place. Especially so fresh after a war.

“Professor,” Hermione was speaking out of turn, as always. Draco fought against rolling his eyes and kept them focused on the rafter beams above his head. “Err, Headmistress, I mean. With all due respect, I doubt any of the houses would consider integration with open arms. Especially not with _Slytherin_ , in any respect.”

“I know,” Draco could hear McGonigal’s robes rustling in front of him as she spoke. “They want to tear each other limb from limb at the moment. Which is precisely why you must become examples of unity and lead the younger students.”

The room fell silent before their Headmistress uttered a quiet spell and, with a sharp cracking of bone, Draco found himself doubled over in familiar pain, pawing at his face. The old witch had mended him, thankfully, but resetting the bone proved more painful than Hermione initially breaking it.

“I had considered you for Head Girl, Miss Granger, as I’m sure you are aware.” McGonigal was moving again, ignoring Draco and gliding around her office as she scrutinised them both. Draco fought to keep his vulgarities to himself as he shuddered in residual agony, struggling to stand tall again. “I was going to pair you with Mister Goldstein as Head Boy, although given the circumstances perhaps I may have misjudged. It seems as if a better match has arisen, a _truer_ match to lessen the housing quarrels.”

Draco glanced up, catching the Headmistress’ eye as she stared pointedly in his direction. She reminded him very much of a cat that got the cream. He didn’t like that look.

“I’m partnering you with Mister Malfoy instead.”

“W-what?!” Hermione stuttered, aghast, her head snapping up and her eyes darting from McGonigal to Draco and back again. Of all the things to come out of their Headmistress’ mouth, this was evidently not what Hermione had been expecting.

Nor him, by any means. Draco had thought his chances of Head Boy had been taken away during his first try at seventh year, or his lack thereof. Thanks to Severus’ positioning within the school, he found he had fallen out of favour for such an opportunity. Too many things to distract him from his tasks and errands. He had well been aware of Snape’s reasoning. Even his prefect badge had been reluctantly handed to him that year.

Draco let out a snide huff before standing tall again, shaking off the lingering pain in his face in order to deliver his own malicious response. But McGonigal was quick to tut him, pacing about the room once more. Draco noted her wand still out, poised in her fingers as if on the verge of being used again.

“And to keep you on your toes,“ She added, “I’m enacting a Doublets Oath.”

The statement bounced of Draco with minimal effect. He tried to recall any knowledge he might have picked up on such an oath but drew only blanks. He hadn’t come across it before, but Hermione definitely had.

Her reaction was captivating. He watched with mingled amusement as the colour drained from Hermione’s blood-speckled face and she begun spluttering, suddenly lost for words - if such a thing were at all possible. Her mouth opened and closed several times in succession, but she failed to form words.

It was _marvellous_.

“I’m afraid you have forced my hand in the matter, Miss Granger.”

“But this spell is barbaric.” Hermione squeaked in protest. “It’s used to—”

“To keep small children well behaved, I am aware.”

Draco rubbed at his nose with his wad of blood-stained tissues, squinting at McGonigal.

“I’m sorry, but what?” He muttered nasally. “Doublet’s Oath? What?”

“Oh, it’s a humble charm, Mister Malfoy.” She replied. “With simple spell work. Traditionally it is used on squabbling children but, if the occasion calls for it, it can be easily adapted for other means.”

“Please, Headmistress,” The look of desperation on Hermione’s face, spectacular as it was, began to make Draco feel partially unsettled. He wondered why such a spell was even necessary. “Please reconsider.”

But their Headmistress looked unmoved on the matter, instead eyeing them both with an air of finality. As Draco knew all too well, once the former head of Gryffindor had settled on an idea, she was unlikely to budge.

“Both of your hands, if you please.” She said after a beat, eyebrows raised as she watched them both with careful intensity.

Draco turned his attention to Hermione, wondering if she would concede to such an act. She did after a moment of inner-chaos. Draco could tell by the way her cheeks blushed crimson and her eyebrows knitted together angrily that she was mentally chastising herself. She timidly rolled up her left sleeve, shaking as she outstretched her forearm.

_Ever the teacher’s pet_ , Draco scowled to himself as he watched. But soon enough he found he was regretting his thoughts, for the angry blade-work Hermione brandished on her arm was hard to ignore.

The lines that Bellatrix had carved sat crisp and defined, contrasting against the paler skin of Hermione’s inner arm.

It wasn’t that he had forgotten the mark was there, because he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure he ever could. He had simply tried to block out the entire ordeal concerning his aunt and Hermione Granger entirely. It was a time in his life he didn’t wish to dwell on, for the emotions the memory now fostered were near enough to send him round the bend.

But not one to back down from a challenge when the competition was none other than Potter’s _Golden Girl_ herself, Draco faltered only a second before rolling his own sleeve up, all too aware of how credulous the act was. The Dark Mark, although faded, sat angrily within the skin of his forearm, and ugly reminder of everything he had grown to detest.

But this was Hogwarts, he reminded himself, and this was a renowned teacher. If there was ever a time to be reckless, he assumed it was now.

If either Hermione or McGonigal had taken issue to the mark, they didn’t verbalize their concerns. Not a word was spoken.

The spell work was very rudimentary, as McGonigal had advised, and the spell itself was lacklustre at best. McGonigal had them both turn their palms upward toward each other, running the tip of her wand over and around their hands in unison.

There was no oath made, as the spell’s namesake would suggest, leaving Draco quite in the dark regarding what it actually did.

When Draco chanced to look up from McGonigal’s charm, he saw Hermione worrying her lip across from him. Her lids were lowered, her eyes following the spell work, as if meticulously mapping McGonigal’s movements to memory.

A peculiar thought flittered through his mind. He had never stood quite so close to Hermione before without setting off a verbal sparring match. As he observed her from under the safety of his lashes, he noted she looked older and angrier than he could recall her ever being. But, at the same time, she had matured into quite a substantial specimen – blood splatter aside, with the looks that even most pure-blooded females would envy. Not that he liked to admit it, of course, but she had bloomed sometime during her absence from the previous school year.

Perhaps Rita Skeeter had been able to see something he couldn’t, back when she had written up Hermione as a stunningly pretty girl in the tabloids. Of course, back then he had simply laughed at the absurd notion of anyone being prettier than Pansy Parkinson – even when his dance partner Pansy herself had gawked at Hermione at the Yule Ball in fourth year.

As if she could read his thoughts, Hermione’s brown eyes flicked up to meet his. She had caught him off guard in the moment, startled him in his thoughts. He hesitated before he realised what he was doing, faltering as his eyes locked with hers for a split second over McGonigal’s charm.

_Guilt_.

Was it guilt? It was something, bubbling away in his mind. It was creeping into his thoughts as he stared at Hermione Granger without any hint of a façade dividing them, for the first time in perhaps forever. It was uplifting, although short.

It certainly didn’t last. He regained composure quickly, narrowed his eyes as if ready to hurl an insult. Ever ready to mask himself off, keep regularity.

An odd pulsing sensation making its way through his fingertips drew his attention back down and he watched as McGonigal completed her enchantment with a punctuating flick.

“Now,” She said, slipping her wand up her sleeve, pointedly ignoring both of her student’s scars. “For the good of the younger students, please act with come consideration. The Head dormitories will be yours from the first Saturday of the new month. You don’t have to vacate your current arrangements, but if you do please see to it that you use your new dwelling sensibly. I will not tolerate hexes. I will not tolerate curses. And I believe I do not even have to mention that I will not tolerate _fraternising_.”

Draco gave a sharp sniff, simultaneously clearing his sinuses and alluding to his thoughts on the matter of _fraternising_ with Hermione Granger.

_No, sirree. Nothing to worry about there_.

Despite her superficial blooming, to Draco she was still the same Gryffindor swot as she had always been.

_Nothing remotely appealing there at all._

He had pulled his sleeve back down, tucked his arm away, and eagerly waited to be dismissed.

\---

“This is unbelievable. This is outrageous. This can’t be legal, can it?” Hermione was practically steaming from the ears as she marched through the empty corridors after Draco, hot on his trail. After McGonigal had dismissed them, he had tried to keep a few strides ahead, attempting to lose her on his way to the dungeons. Her frustration was endearing, but proved too much for Draco who was fast beginning to sport a black eye.

“Honestly, Granger, I don’t care. Bugger off so I can get some sleep.” He growled, sharply turning down an otherwise deserted corridor.

Their entire ordeal had eaten up nearly four hours of what was supposed to only be a one-hour detention, and they were both on the verge of breaking curfew. The last thing Draco needed at that moment was to be stopped by Filch and written up for yet another punishment. That would be the cherry on top of an otherwise dreadful night for both of them.

“B-but aren’t you angry? Your liberties have just been stripped, Malfoy. Surely you—”

“For fucksake, Granger! Don’t you ever stop talking?” Draco ran a hand over his face in exasperation. He had no idea what she was talking about, too drained from their crystal brawl prior. If it was something to do with McGonigal’s spell, then he hardly cared. As far as he was concerned, becoming Head Boy was not one of his priorities. He simply wanted to get through the year intact.

To this, Hermione seemed to take personal offence. She gave an angry huff, pulled up one of her cardigan sleeves and pinched herself forcefully on the arm.

Draco did nothing but watch, bemused at Granger’s antics for a brief tick. He was about to assert a snide remark when he felt something peculiar and lost all train of thought.

 “Ow!” He reeled around, grabbing at his own arm. “What in the fuck was that?”

“That’s the Oath, you idiot.”

“You dirty little mu—OW” She had pinched herself again, this time harder.

“Try it, Malfoy.” She dared him, fingers poised to pinch at the skin of her forearm once more. “Fling another insult and see what happens.”

Draco’s eyes shot down to his own arm and he rolled his right sleeve up to rub at the tender skin of his arm. A faint bloom of red was the only evidence that he wasn’t going crazy, that something really had pinched him.

A Doublet Oath. That’s what McGonigal had called it. But with the dawning comprehension of how exactly it worked, Draco realised he called it by another name – a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Meticulously mapping McGonigal’s movements to memory." Try saying that five times fast.


End file.
